It was an hour after sunset, with a north wind blowing sleet straight into my face, and my not-so-Little Ones were huddled on the roof of the greenhouse.

Naturally.

Earlier that day, we had gone to a 2 p.m. showing of Avatar 3 in Austin. I did not do the math on what time we would get home. I also forgot that James Cameron believes three hours is a reasonable ask of the human bladder.

We barreled home knowing the second coldest night of the winter was aiming directly for us.

On the drive, I watched the cameras. Birds in. Birds out. Everyone milling around nearby. That was good. That meant options.

Then Neo and Morpheus disappeared.

Leia, meanwhile, had stationed herself at the greenhouse door like a nightclub bouncer who had seen the list and decided absolutely no one was getting past her.

Perfect.

The Part Where I Thought I Had This Figured Out

For three nights, I had been winning.

Actual wins. Real ones.

After witnessing what may have been the most aggressive case of animal bullying I’ve ever seen — and from Leia of all birds — I put the net barrier back up at night. Daytime access for everyone. Nighttime separation.

Think Fight Club, except only one side is fighting and the other didn’t realize it was an option.

It worked.

Two full nights with all four birds inside the greenhouse.
One outlier where Leia rage-quit to the roof and everyone else stayed out of solidarity.

The only downside was that I had to manually shush the Little Ones into their side every night.

Not ideal, but manageable.

Unless you’re late.

Headlights, Regret, and the Worst Possible Configuration

We pulled in well past dark.

I swung the headlights toward the greenhouse and immediately saw it.

Neo and Morpheus.
On the roof.

Han and Leia.
Inside.

This was worst case.

Cold. Wind. Sleet. The Little Ones exposed. The bullies warm, dry, and undoubtedly smug.

I ran inside, flipped on the floodlights, grabbed the ladder, and climbed up behind them.

They were delighted to see me.

They were not moving.

You would think you could just pick them up and put them down where you want them.

That is not how peafowl work.

Enter: The Stick

This is where the stick comes in.

A long, single branch. The most effective peacock negotiation tool I own.

I learned this over the summer. I am terrifying to them. A large human with arms reads as chaos.

A stick, kept low and close, is guidance.

Like a shepherd.
With sheep.
That honk.

I used it to ease them toward the front of the greenhouse, climbed back down, and took my position like this was a religious ceremony.

” Come on, guys,” I yelled into the sleet.
“You can do it.”
“Just fly down to me.”

My hands were numb. My face hurt. Ice pellets were bouncing off my jacket. I was actively bargaining with the universe.

Then Morpheus figured it out.

I had treats.

I called her.
“Come on, Morph. You can do it.”

And she did.

I have never wanted to hug a bird more in my life.

“Neo,” I said, holding up the worms like currency.
“Look. Morph is getting all the good stuff. ”

This is where prayer turned into full negotiation.

Then Neo flew down.

Bingo.

Once they were on the ground, getting them inside from the dark was easy. Almost pleasant. Like the hard part hadn’t just tried to end me.

What I Didn’t Realize Until Later

All those nightly negotiations? The ones I kept losing?

They weren’t failures.

They were training.

If I hadn’t spent days losing arguments to four birds, the Little Ones would never have practiced flying down to me in the dark. They wouldn’t have known the drill. They wouldn’t have trusted it.

Turns out I wasn’t just training peacocks.

I was training feathered gargoyles to respond to sleet-based emergencies.

This was not in any of the books.